Reprise
by Aishuu
Summary: Prequel to Dross, Thirty. After two years away, Ryoma shows up as a first year at Seigaku High School but there's been a startling change to him.
1. Could We Start Again Please?

Aishuu Offers:  
Reprise  
A Tennis no Oujisama Fanfiction  
Notes: This is part of the Dross universe, but it stands alone as a gen Ryoma character study. It's a prelude.

* * *

_Part One: Could We Start Again, Please?_

It was always exciting to begin a new year of classes, but this year Kachirou felt a sense of apprehension. It was almost as though he was stepping backward by entering Seigaku High School. It had been so long since he had been a nervous first year - it was decidedly off-putting to be knocked back down the ladder of seniority.

As he adjusted his dark blue uniform that had a subtle "I" on the collar to indicate his lowly status, he glanced around his classroom, wondering who had been assigned to his class. Katsuo hadn't ended up in his class, and as he had entered, he had heard Horio's voice from two doors down. A part of him was a bit relieved, though he felt guilty for not wanting to be around his friend. Horio was so _tiring_ to be around, though, that guilt was brushed away with practicality. He'd see Horio at tennis practice.

In the corner of the room, he saw two girls twitter nervously as they eyed his tall, slender form - obviously they recognized him as the former captain of the Seigaku tennis team. He offered them a shy smile before pretending to turn his attention to a book on studying tips he had conveniently open on his desk. He had never learned how to deal with the adoration of females.

The nice thing about changing schools would be his senpai would once again be the focus of those stares instead. A part of him wondered if there was any chance he'd be a regular on the high school team, but he knew, intellectually, that wasn't a possibility. At least not till next year. The team that had won the nationals while he had been a first year was almost entirely regathered - only Kawamura and Echizen would not be back.

He hesitated as he turned the page, wondering why he was thinking about Echizen. Maybe it was because he was back in first year, and Echizen was so tightly wound in his memories of being a first year. His former classmate had left Japan before second year to study in America. Kachirou couldn't help but keep an eye on international tennis magazines, waiting for word on the Japanese tennis player who was shaking up the scene, but no word ever came. After a while, Ryoma had faded to the back of his mind, a legendary person that had crossed his path and never had truly been a part of his world.

The door swung open again just as the bell rang, and he put his book away, waiting for the class to be called to attention. Glancing up, he stared at the front of the classroom to assess his new home room teacher, but the person who had just entered wasn't an adult - it was another student - one who was eerily familiar.

His heart almost stopped as he stared into the face of an older Echizen Ryoma.

It was as though his thoughts had summoned the specter of the past, but it was undoubtedly him, a Ryoma who had changed with three years of time, grown into a young man who moved with the grace of a world-class athlete, reaching the promise he had inherited from having a former pro tennis player for a father. The face was a bit more angular, having lost its baby fat, and he was definitely taller, but it was still Echizen.

Ryoma didn't see him, moving down the aisle with nonchalant care, tossing his bag onto a seat two over from where Kachirou himself sat. Kachirou couldn't keep from staring, unable to believe the sight. He had never expected to see Echizen again, not after he had left.

Someone else in class noticed as well.

"Ryoma-kun?"

The sound of a pencil clattering to the floor momentarily diverted his attention, and Kachirou realized that Ryuuzaki Sakuno was sitting three rows back. It wasn't remarkable that he hadn't noted her presence before - after Ryoma had left, she had drifted out of tennis, and she was naturally a retiring personality, the kind of girl who became a part of the scenery. Pretty, but not a knock-out, a girl who would make someone a nice, sweet, undemanding girlfriend someday.

Ryoma deigned to glance back at Sakuno, and it took a moment for recognition to cross his face. He nodded briefly, the casual kind of greeting that a person offered to someone they saw daily. "Ryuuzaki," he said, deigning to admit who she was.

A brilliant red flush stained her pale cheeks, and she looked about ready to faint. "Ry-ryoma-kun... you're back!" she said, apparently unable to quite process the sight of him.

He didn't offer her a snarky comment, but neither did he give her an explanation. At that moment, the teacher bustled in, full of apologies for her tardiness, and any explanation they may have demanded out of Ryoma was put off until later.

* * *

For Tezuka Kunimitsu, the sound of tennis balls striking the pavement was as familiar as his own heartbeat. He could tell who was playing by the rhythm of the game; on court B, he could hear the sounds of the first years warming up, the slight "whoosh" of air against the gut of racket pleasant to his ears. A slight smile decorated his normally stern features, but he decided it was well-earned. He was captain again, and it was like a great pressure had been released from his shoulders.

Many would have thought it would have been the other way around, but he could never truly relax while under the command of others. Serving as vice captain for a mediocre player was difficult, since he walked a careful line, trying to keep from undermining his senpai's authority. Others would instinctively look to Tezuka whenever an order was given, checking to see if it was a wise decision, and Tezuka had to agree, even if he thought a mistake was being made. Now that was in the past, and he could conduct things his way. It was hard not to smile as people called him "buchou."

He wasn't gloating - quite - but he couldn't help look over the first years with a critical eye, pinpointing last year's captain of Seigaku, Katou Kaichirou, and evaluating how he would transition. The captains always had the worst time learning how to give up authority, and learning to yield to another. Momoshiro had done well enough last year, and it seemed that Kachirou, too, would readily concede. Neither of them were of Tezuka's mold - Kachirou in particular reminded Tezuka of Oishi, a good second, but someone whose quiet presence wasn't the compelling stuff of legends.

Kachirou seemed distracted, glancing around the courts in a bit of confusion, an action which earned Tezuka's ire. Tennis wasn't precisely _dangerous_, but it required focus. There was no telling the damage a ball could do if a player wasn't paying attention.

"Kachirou!" he called, his deep voice ringing over the name as he prepared to sentence the truant to punishment laps.

"Yes!" The first year stiffened, but there was only worry on his face.

Something rang amiss about this situation to Tezuka, and he knew enough not to ignore it. "Is something wrong?" he asked, coming over to him. He'd been in the same place two years ago, the former captain of a tennis club, knocked down to entering first year status. It was impossible not to have any empathy.

Had Kachirou been the child Tezuka had known back in junior high, he would have stammered and been awed by Tezuka's attention. Now, though, with his own prestige behind him, he was able to answer in a steady voice. "I... Tezuka-buchou, did you hear anything about Ryoma-kun? I thought I'd see him here today."

Tezuka stared at Kachirou, and for a second it crossed his mind to ask if the boy was having memory lapses. He hadn't heard that name in quite a while. "Echizen... Ryoma?" he said finally, the name awkward on his lips.

Kachirou seemed to realize that something was wrong, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement as he leaned back against the fence. His arms wove across his chest as he considered what to say. "He's in my class, but I didn't get a chance to talk to him. He went somewhere during lunch too quickly for me to catch him, and he got out of there as soon as the bell rang... but I thought he'd come here."

Tezuka never let surprise show on his face, but he was surprised. "Hnn."

"Maybe he's not allowed to play in a school club? If he's going pro?" Kachirou suggested helpfully.

It was a possibility, but one which Tezuka didn't believe. Echizen wouldn't have been able to resist the opportunity to challenge his senpai and to display how much stronger he'd become. Something about this situation was raising Tezuka's internal alarm.

"I'll talk to Murakami-sensei and see if he knows," Tezuka said, effectively ending the discussion.

It wasn't until later that Tezuka managed to corner Murakami. The man, in his early forties, looked ten years younger. He had once coached professional tennis players before becoming dissatisfied with their attitude toward his beloved sport, but had been unable to stay away. He had decided to work with younger players, and hopefully teach them to respect both the game and each other. He also enjoyed fishing, and tied his own lures. He'd even offered Tezuka a few. Needless to say, he and Tezuka connected very well.

The end of practice, Oishi and Tezuka had planned on having a review - without Murakami. Their coach preferred to leave most matters in his captain's hands, only stepping in when he felt intervention was necessary. Some people thought his hands-off method approach indifference. Tezuka thought it was wise, since it showed trust in his young adult players.

"I think this year's team is going to be very good," Oishi said enthusiastically. "We have almost all of the old team from junior high, and a few of the first years look promising as alternates."

Tezuka couldn't have asked for a better opening. "There's one first year I am concerned about. Remember Echizen Ryoma?"

Oishi was unable to keep from laughing. "He's not someone you forget easily!" He frowned. "Is Horio making a big deal about him still?"

"No. Kachirou said that he's going to this school."

It was interesting to watch Oishi's face twist as emotions played through his mind. Shock; delight; confusion. "I haven't seen him..." he said slowly. "He wasn't with the other first years, and I haven't seen him around."

"We wouldn't, necessarily," Tezuka said.

Oishi nodded his agreement. The school was really quite segmented by year, and the classes were large enough that Oishi didn't even know everyone in the third year. "Is there any reason he isn't playing? I haven't heard anything about him going professional..."

"I think Ryuuzaki-sensei would have told us if he had," Tezuka replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "I want to ask Murakami-sensei if he knows anything before I pursue the situation."

"If Echizen is in school, he should definitely be a member of the team... unless he hurt himself playing? He always played so hard, and his body was so small..." Oishi began to worry as he set off at a steady pace for the teacher's room. Tezuka followed in his wake, a bit amused at how smoothly Oishi had taken control.

Oishi's days of being substitute captain had resulted in lasting effects on the previously retiring young man; there was a delicate balance of power between him and Tezuka, one which teetered precariously every now and then as Oishi unthinkingly took command. It wasn't something to call Oishi on. He had encouraged it, and he knew better than to complain when his creation exceeded his expectations.

Murakami was in the teacher's room, playing with some colored bits of thread, knotting them into an intricate design that matched the genius of anything Tezuka had on his wall. Murakami didn't believe in using the same pattern twice, so each was a piece of art, in Tezuka's opinion. This one looked only about half done, and while some people could tie flies in a matter of minutes, Murakami tended to linger on his work, making sure each thread was perfect.

He didn't look up at the sound of the door opening, and Oishi fell back, respectfully taking a place at Tezuka's shoulder. Tezuka cleared his throat, hoping for an invitation of some sort, but Murakami was too absorb to notice - or seemed to be. It was hard to tell with him.

"Excuse us, Murakami-kantoku?" Tezuka said after a moment. The man didn't bother lifting his eyes, but gave a slight grunt to indicate that he was listening. "We had our first practice today."

"I assumed that you would, since it was on your schedule. I'm not going till next week, after you weed out the rabble," he said. "We already talked about that."

They had indeed, at length, before school started. The first week would be conditioning, with a training menu designed with heavy input from Inui, who was also serving as manager. The schedule was grueling and only the most devoted students would stay, because despite the reflected glory of Seigaku's tennis team, the work more than paid for it. Tezuka expected over half the first years to drop within the first week.

"We know," Tezuka said. He tried to think on how to phrase the question about Echizen. It wasn't the club's policy to recruit, no matter how much potential a player had. "I was a bit surprised that Echizen Ryoma didn't turn up."

It was a subtle probe for information, one which Murakami was more likely to respond to than a demand. Three years ago, the entire tennis scene had been captured by the charisma of the confident first year. Murakami would know who he was.

"Ah." Murakami added a bit of red thread to his current piece. "There's probably reasons for that."

"Reasons?" Oishi echoed.

"Have you ever been ice fishing, Tezuka?" Murakami asked, finally tying off the fly. His non sequitur was entirely like him - he would often abruptly change the course of a conversation, and it would only be later that Tezuka would realize his hidden point.

"No."

"I have. It's a wonderful feeling. You're standing out on a floor which won't be there in a month or two, trying to catch something most people have abandoned for the season. It's very cold, though, Since its so flat, the wind races along like nothing will ever stop it - you could catch your death from it - but that's not the real dangerous thing. I've known people who've gone through because they went out too early or late into the season, or sometimes just stepped where the ice is weak." He pretended to hold a fishing pole, and his eyes grew distant with longing. "But it's fun, because if you really love fishing, it's a way to keep the sport going year round."

Oishi looked utterly confused and a bit resigned. He didn't understand the way Murakami thought, and almost all of his analogies went right over Oishi's head.

"Thank you, sir," Tezuka said, his expression thoughtful.

"Have fun at practice," Murakami said. "Ranking matches are in two weeks. Let's put together the best team we've ever had."

* * *

The next day, Echizen Ryoma was in class, so Kachirou knew he hadn't been dreaming about the prodigal player's presence. There was no indication that Echizen was aware that Kachirou was confused at all - instead, he arrived just as the bell rang and proceeded to fall asleep, ignoring the first class, which was English.

The teacher had learned yesterday through a rather embarrassing display where Ryoma pointed out three mistakes in her pronunciation that the Japanese American had a firmer grasp on the language than she did. Ryoma clearly wanted to be left alone, and after casting him a somewhat resentful look, she left him alone to his nap as the others struggled through conjugating verbs.

Kachirou slipped him occasional glances, but nothing changed. Ryoma was still on the small side, but he could see even from two seats over that his arms still had the well-defined muscles of an athlete.

He wasn't the only one who was distracted by Ryoma. Most of the girls were stealing sly looks, giggling in appreciation. He heard the crinkle of paper as notes circulated, and he would have wagered that most of them were about his friend.

He wondered if calling Ryoma his "friend" was still appropriate. Echizen Ryoma had always been something of a cold fish, shying away from social engagements that didn't involve tennis. He had never really responded well to overtures, tolerating people more than actually enjoying their company.

He didn't realize how hard he was staring until someone poked his back. He glanced over his shoulder at Ezaki Ryohei, who was prodding him with the eraser-end of a pencil. "What?" he whispered in announcement.

Ezaki just gestured to the teacher, who was regarding Kachirou with a flushed face of annoyance. "Now that I have your attention, Kachirou-kun, would you care to read page 23? After, of course, you can go the hallway and hold buckets to improve your focus."

Kachirou sighed as his classmates tittered. Ryoma, he noted, was still snoozing.

The rest of the day passed on that note. Ryoma vanished before Kachirou could offer to eat lunch with him, probably heading for the roof. Kachirou wasn't desperate enough to stalk him up there. Instead he was conned into eating lunch with Horio, who appeared in the class right as the period started, with Katsuo right behind him.

Katsuo was more than willing to share the bento he had packed. It was full of tantalizing morsels and looked like something a professional cook had created. Horio, of course, abandoned most of his meal in favor of Katsuo's. Kachirou was more polite, only accepting a few tidbits.

"Have you seen Echizen around?" Katsuo asked. "I was going to invite him to join us..."

"Echizen?" Horio's voice still sounded like an out of tune trumpet. "You mean Echizen is _back?_" He started to crane his head around frantically, like that would make him appear on command.

"He's in my class, but I haven't really spoken to him," Kachirou said.

"Why not? Wait, why didn't I see him at tennis practice yesterday?" Horio demanded a bit angrily. "You were hiding him, weren't you?"

Horio's voice was still as shrill as it has been three years ago. Kachirou blushed as half the class turned and _stared_ at what the trio was doing. "Horio, _please_," Kachirou said in embarassment.

Horio was always like a dog with a bone. Once he got something in his mind, he refused to let go. He pushed his chair back, wove his arms across his chest in a gesture of stubbornness, and turned his nose up. "Well, I'm going to see him right now!"

"Horio!" Katsuo and Kachirou said in horror. Numerous scenarios for how the encounter would go exploded through Kachirou's mind like a grenade. It wouldn't be pleasant if a testy Ryoma was confronted by Horio, of all people.

Horio was fast, and Kachirou and Katsuo were a good ten steps behind him after setting their lunches aside neatly. The sound of his school-issued shoes beat against the stairs as he made for the stairs. He apparently remembered, as Kachirou did, that Ryoma had always been fond of the roof.

It was with a resigned feeling of dread that Kachirou watched Horio open the door and dart through. He followed more cautiously, wondering if Ryoma's tart tongue would deal with the situation before it became a problem.

He was surprised to suddenly plough into Horio, who had frozen to the spot. "_Ouch!_" Horio yelled as he spun forward, thrown to the ground.

Kachirou was immediately contrite. He should have been paying closer attention. "I'm sorry, Horio-kun," he apologized. He started to ask why Horio had stopped when he saw something that made him rub his eyes.

Ryoma was studying.

He had expected to find Ryoma on the roof, but Ryoma usually stole a few extra minutes of sleep in the sun, lounging like a cat. Sometimes they had teased Ryoma about being solar powered and needing to replenish his battery.

Horio stared, wide-eyed, as he studied the friend he hadn't seen in years. Ryoma was dressed neatly in the school uniform, which was worn exactly to regulations. It fit him perfectly, and there was nothing done to individualize the style. Most "cool" students would wear _something_ that marked them as unique, but Ryoma looked like he was ready to be photographed for a school guide.

Kachirou squinted, wondering what was missing before realizing. Ryoma wasn't wearing his wrist-band. That wristband had been nearly as much his trademark as his white cap. No matter what he was doing, he always had worn it. Kachirou had thought it amazingly cool at the time, realizing only later that Ryoma probably just forgot to take it off most of the time.

It didn't take long for Horio to get over his shock, and puff up a bit, his chest thrust out belligerently. Kachirou tried to grab hold of him to pull him away discreetly, but Horio was already moving.

"Echizen!" His voice sounded like a whining hacksaw.

Ryoma went rigid, resembling a cat who'd just had an unwelcome encounter with water. He looked at the book he was reading, over at Horio, and gave an almost undetectable sigh. The book shut with a snap, and he leveled a rather intimidating stare on the trio. "Yes?" he asked, sounding testy.

Horio wasn't one to be easily deterred. "What are you doing up here? Why didn't you stop and tell me you were back?"

The look in Ryoma's eyes was tired. "I wasn't aware I had to tell you of my actions." He looked over at Kachirou and Katsuo, nodding acknowledgment. "Long time no see."

Katsuo waved hesitantly, but Kachirou, relieved at finally being acknowledged, felt the dam burst. "Ryoma-kun! Why aren't you going to practice? Are you playing professionally or something?"

There was only the slightest of hesitations before Ryoma answered. "I don't play anymore." 


	2. Erase and Rewind

_Part Two: Erase and Rewind_

The news spread quickly, like a grenade had detonated on the grounds of Seigaku. It was probably because Horio still possessed the same glorious inability to keep his mouth shut that had so often landed him in trouble during middle school. By the first thing next morning, everyone had heard of it. Echizen Ryoma had quit tennis. 

Tezuka hadn't been told directly, instead learning while listening to two of his classmates gossip during physical education. 

"Remember that kid who shook up the tennis club back in middle school?" 

"Yeah... wasn't his father the pro?" 

"That's the one. Well, apparently he quit." 

"Quit what? School?" The voice was dismissive. It wasn't uncommon for students to leave school upon completing middle school. 

"No, _tennis,_" the first voice sounded irritated. 

Tezuka found his attention abruptly focused on the conversation with an intensity that would have frightened most sane men. His quick mind began to jog through the possibilities, but he listened carefully, wanting to know if they had any more information. Had it been his style, he would have grabbed the first speaker roughly, shaking him until he spilled everything he knew. 

"So what?" 

"Don't you think it's interesting? I heard he was going pro in America - maybe he found he couldn't cut it." The first speaker was amused, rather than concerned. 

"Sucks to be him, then." The second drawled. 

The conversation quickly turned to homework, and Tezuka let himself ruminate on what he'd learned. He had a hard time imagining Echizen Ryoma without tennis. The boy lived the sport, embracing it with every fiber of his being. For Ryoma to quit something major must have happened. 

He could, of course, ignore the fact Ryoma was back, pretend he had no responsibility or obligation to him. Tezuka still envisioned him as a short middle school first year, too cocky and talented for his own good. It might be good for his development to start acting more responsibly. It could just be a phase. Tezuka couldn't believe that Ryoma has quit for good. In Ryoma, he saw the future of Japanese tennis. 

He heard someone call his name. "Tezuka-san, it's your turn!" a boy whose name he never bothered learning said. 

Tezuka stared without enthusiasm at the track. Today was sprints, never his strong point. He was an endurance athlete. "Coming," he replied, before taking his place in the blocks. He dismissed the matter of Ryoma until he could have a chance to think on it. 

Later, when he was changed back into his uniform and straightening his collar, he hesitated as a new thought occurred to him. He hadn't considered the possibility that Ryoma couldn't play - though Oishi had suggested it in passing. It would explain his reticent attitude and unwillingness to seek out his old comrades. It wouldn't be unreasonable to believe that Ryoma had suffered from a career-ending injury. Tezuka remembered very well the sight of blood dripping across Ryoma's face during their first game against Fudomine, and the stubborn set of his chin when Oishi tried to make him forfeit. 

His right hand drifted to his left shoulder, and he gripped it tightly as though to check it was still okay. He still had nightmares about being permanently disabled, permanently unable to play. How would Ryoma act, if such an unthinkable thing had happened? Probably very much like he was. His entire life had been tennis, and the loss could be devastating. 

"Tezuka! Do you have your dictionary with you?" someone called from behind him. He turned to see Fuji Syuusuke leaning casually against the locker. He had finished changing already and was looking at Tezuka with curiosity. 

Their shared English dictionary was something of a private secret between them. Fuji had the habit of "forgetting" his two days before his exams, and would politely ask to borrow Tezuka's to do his homework. He returned it the next day, full of sticky notes and marked pages. 

Tezuka merely accepted it back, a bit relieved each time. With his schedule, finding time to do his homework was difficult, but he didn't want to copy someone's and not learn the information for himself. Fuji solved the problem neatly - he didn't do all the work for Tezuka, but he certainly made the task easier. It was the kind of thing a friend would do. 

"Yes, it's in my bag." He nodded, and Fuji dug it out of the meticulously organized bag as Tezuka finished buttoning his shirt. 

"Thanks, I'll return it tomorrow," Fuji said. Then he frowned a bit, staring into Tezuka's face. "Is something wrong, Tezuka?" 

"Just thinking," he said. 

"About Echizen?" There were times he could have sworn that Fuji was mildly telepathic. He gave a slight nod, and Fuji laughed softly. "It's all anyone is talking about. They still remember him." 

"Has Momoshirou spoken to him yet?" 

"No, but I think Kachirou has plans. I'm sure it won't be long until Eiji and Oishi start trying to corner him, or Inui decides he needs to do a study." 

"And you?" 

"Me?" The completely innocuous tone didn't fool Tezuka for an instant, and he leveled a searching look on Fuji. Fuji sighed, shook his head, and let the smile fade away from his lips. "I'm going to wait until everyone's done pestering him. He'll confess when he's ready, and not a moment before. I would consider calling Ryuuzaki-sensei, since she's always been close to Echizen's family, but she's currently in the US attending an international conference." 

Tezuka didn't bother asking Fuji how he knew that. His information network rivaled Inui's. "If we don't know when she comes back, I'll speak to her." He paused for a second, wondering if his next question was going to be wise, but decided to ask it anyway. "What do you think?" 

"I think something happened. The Echizen we knew lived for tennis." His eyes lingered on Tezuka's shoulder. "You can imagine that it would have to be a severe injury for him to stop because of that. I'm wagering it's personal." 

Ryoma, though, didn't have a personal life as far as Tezuka knew. He had grown up playing tennis, living and breathing it through his father. Echizen Nanjirou would never let his son quit. A suspicion started to creep into the back of his mind, but he wasn't sure if he could voice it. 

Fuji nodded slowly, answering the unspoken question. "Yes, I think it has something to do with his father."

* * *

They hadn't been able to get anything else out of Ryoma, and Kachirou felt more frustrated than he ever had before. Since learning Ryoma had returned, a small part of him had been hoping he'd get a chance to play against his friend, to see those legendary skills as an opponent instead of a fan. Ryoma had assumed nearly god-like stature to them, and he needed to know for himself how his current skills compared to the boy who had shattered convention. 

He wasn't able to concentrate on class the next day, stealing looks out of the corner of his eye at Ryoma. The other boy seemed oblivious, taking notes as was required but otherwise not paying much mind to what was going on around him. 

"Mizuno-kun!" a voice sounded, startling him. "Just what do you find so interesting over there?" 

He jumped to his feet, a bright blush staining his cheeks. "Um, nothing..." 

"Maybe you should go to hold buckets in the hall, to practice refocusing your attention?" 

"Yes, sensei," he said agreeably, kicking himself mentally as the class twittered around him. He should have known better than to be so indiscrete, it was his own fault for getting caught. 

The water buckets were heavy and his arms hurt within minutes, but he stood gamely, accepting his punishment. He could hear the sound of muffled speaking from within the classroom, but his mind tuned it out, concentrating on the slight tilt in the surface of the water as he shifted every few moments, trying to keep his muscles from being too strained. 

He heard the bell ring, and with a sigh of relief he set the buckets down, rolling his shoulders to keep them from cramping. His sensei shot by him, offering him a glare, and Katsuo bowed his head with proper contrition. 

He headed right back to class, and blushed a bit as Tetsuya, a friend of his who served as class representative, applauded. "Congratulations, Katsuo-kun! You have earned the honor of being the first member of 1-3 to be punished!" The others in the class tittered, except for Ryoma, who had his nose buried in notes. "Just so you don't forget, you're on cleaning duty for today with Echizen-kun." 

He glanced over at Echizen curiously, hoping for some kind of reaction. He didn't get one - Ryoma had opened his history textbook and wasn't paying any attention. "Fine, fine," he agreed, hoping some time with Ryoma might help sort matters out. 

For the rest of the day, Kachirou made sure to focus on the teachers. He couldn't afford to get in trouble, not while he was on the tennis team. There were strict rules of punishment for a player who didn't meet the club code, most involving rejected membership or suspensions. 

Finally classes wrapped up, and he gave a relieved sigh after they had been dismissed. He had never been a stellar student - adequate, perhaps - and he wasn't used to focusing so hard on his schooling. 

A few of his classmates bid him goodbye, with promises to tell Tezuka he was on duty for the day and would be late. He watched his classmates file out, their cheerful voices echoing back into the increasingly empty room. Finally they were alone, and he turned toward Echizen nervously. "So, Ryoma-kun, do you want to clean together, or you can do the class book while I start-" 

Ryoma retrieved the notebook without a word to Kachirou, before opening it and making diligent notations. Kachirou sighed, wishing he dared to demand Ryoma actually acknowledge him verbally, but Ryoma had never been really verbal. Knowing his luck, he'd just earn one of Ryoma's trademark "you really can't be that stupid, can you?" glares. 

He went to the chalkboard and starting to erase it, glancing over his shoulder 

"So, Ryoma-kun, would you like to maybe get a burger or something sometime?" Kachirou said, hoping he wasn't stammering. He'd spent so much of his first middle school in awe of Echizen Ryoma that he felt awkward trying to treat him normally. He sounded like he was asking the other boy out on a date, he thought with a flush of humiliation. 

Ryoma was quiet, and Kachirou resigned himself to being ignored. Then, amazingly, Ryoma spoke. "If you pay and don't invite Horio." 

Kachirou caught himself gawking for a second, returned to the unsure first year he'd been in middle school instead of one of the most sought-after guys in his class. Then he caught himself, managing a smile. "Just this once, as a welcome home treat," he said. He remembered that Ryoma had been an expert at wheedling free lunches out of his friends, and didn't want to become a regular victim. 

The slow, sly smile that appeared on Ryoma's face was one of the most natural Kachirou had seen his classmate wear since meeting again. "Fine," he agreed. "I'll meet you after your practice." 

They finished cleaning together in relative silence, though Kachirou had a thousand things he wanted to say. It was hard for him to keep quiet, but he didn't want to take the chance of offending Ryoma and having him change his mind. 

Tennis practice that day was amazingly dull. Most of the practice was devoted to conditioning, which meant multiple laps around the court and other tedious exercises. The regulars were performing endurance exercises, which made Kachirou tired just to watch. Inui was serving as club manager again this year, and his program was nothing short of hellish. 

He could feel the minutes dragging by slowly. He usually loved playing tennis – even the stupid drills – but this time he wanted it to be over. His impatience made for a sloppy performance. He felt Tezuka's eyes on him, but his captain said nothing. Fuji noticed as well - he noticed everything - and raised an eyebrow. Kachirou just shrugged, figuring Fuji would draw his own, likely correct, conclusions. 

Kachirou managed to sneak off early, since Katsuo agreed to pick up his slack. So instead of sweeping the courts like the rest of the first years, he made a mad dash for the clubroom to change his clothing. The regulars were already there, but no one made any comment. It was only as he was leaving that he thought he heard Fuji murmur, "Good luck." 

He wasn't sure if he was surprised to find Ryoma waiting for him by the front gates. A part of him had been convinced Ryoma would back out, but Ryoma had always been as good as his word, although he had a tendency to run late for everything. 

They went to a burger joint that had opened up two years before. It was located a block and a half away from the popular street tennis courts, and was frequented by many high school players. He thought he saw a Fudoumine jacket, but didn't try to identify the player. 

Ryoma ordered three hamburgers and extra-large fries. Kachirou bought the same for himself, and they found a booth in the middle of the room. Ryoma used the ketchup liberally on his meal along with salt before digging in. 

Kachirou tried to find a way to open the conversation. "Why you stop playing?" he asked, deciding to go for broke and shove his foot in his mouth. 

Ryoma stared at him for a long moment. "I don't want to," he said. 

"Why not? I mean, you were so good, you could have gone pro…" 

Ryoma concentrated on his burger, eating it in four bites. His cheeks were puffed out comically wide, and Kachirou hoped he didn't end up choking. Then he proceeded to repeat the process with the other two sandwiches, finishing them off in less than thirty seconds. It was like watching one of those eating contests on television. Kachirou could only watch helplessly as Ryoma polished off his fries, knowing the other boy was trying to get away from him. 

"Thanks for the meal," Ryoma said, rising to his feet and collecting his tray. He moved quickly, disposing his garbage and taking the exit. 

Kachirou stared at him, then back at his dinner. With a groan, he pushed the meal aside so he could have the masochistic satisfaction of letting his head hit the table. He'd forgotten that Ryoma was such a stubborn jerk.

* * *

Tezuka wasn't a busybody by nature, but he couldn't leave things alone this time. He had been fond of Ryoma back in middle school, and Fuji seemed to think he could help. Fuji wouldn't have brought the subject up otherwise. It just wasn't about tennis. It was about responsibility. 

Since he had no afternoon practice that Saturday (they'd met at the school at 6 a.m. because their coach had another obligation) Tezuka found Echizen in the library after school, seated at one of the tables located in the back. Ryoma was flipping through a book written in English, and Tezuka didn't speak the language well enough to understand the title. There was a picture of a man wearing old-fashioned Western clothing on the cover, with a gun in his hands. It most likely was a novel, something Echizen had never had time for before. 

"Hello, Echizen," Tezuka said, staring at the first year and noting the changes. Ryoma was much taller than he recalled, probably able to look him squarely in the eye if he was standing. The face had lost its baby fat and was even more cat-like than before. 

"Tezuka-san," Echizen replied, nodding his head with acknowledgement. The address was off for Tezuka, who only remembered being called "buchou" by the young man. 

Tezuka tilted his head to the seat across from Echizen, asking permission to sit. A slight incline of Ryoma's head indicated consent, but not welcome. Theirs was a subtle dance of nonverbal signals, and Tezuka was determined to make it succeed. 

He sat quietly across from Echizen for several moments, waiting for the younger boy to make the first move. Ryoma merely looked at him briefly, before picking up his book again. It was a deliberate insult. 

Tezuka knew how to play this game. He folded his hands carefully in front of him, keeping his gaze steady and unaffected. Normal people would eventually flinch under his stare; no one liked being looked at for to long. Maybe it was a vestigial instinct, come from a more violent time. No matter why it happened, Tezuka had learned to use the skill to his advantage. He had immense wellsprings of patience and could stare someone down for hours. 

Ryoma lasted longer than most, but eventually he cracked. Setting his book aside with a thud of the covers, he folded his hands in front of him. "Well?" he asked, with a mixture of impatience and rudeness. Had he been a member of the club, Tezuka would have given him twenty laps for it. 

"I believe my first question is obvious," Tezuka stated. 

Ryoma sighed, as though being heavily put-upon. "I don't play tennis anymore, so there's no point in joining a club for it, is there?" 

It was like getting sucker punched in the stomach, hearing it directly from Echizen. Tezuka maintained his stoic facade, but inside he felt like something had been turned inside out. He had always known that he wouldn't go professional, not after his arm was injured, but he had pinned his hopes for a legacy on his protégée . 

"Why not?" he asked. "Were you injured?" was the second question out of his mouth. He knew about sports injuries, and understood how frustrating they could be. It took a lot of willpower to work through one, but he would have expected Echizen to possess that. Sharp eyes studied Ryoma, trying to detect where a flaw might lie. 

"No," Ryoma said, not elaborating. Tezuka waited a long moment, before the first year sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He was trying to act cool, but his hand was shaking slightly. "There's no need for me to play anymore." 

He had thought there was some rational explanation, but an Echizen not playing tennis defied all logic. "No need?" Tezuka echoed. He could think of a hundred things to serve as motivation. "What did your father say?" he asked, pressing. Fuji has thought it might involve Nanjirou somehow, and Fuji's instincts with people bordered on preternatural. If Ryoma and Nanjirou had fallen out, it would explain the 

"Nothing. My father died a month ago," Ryoma said. "Brain aneurysm." There was a clinical, detached edge to his words. He wasn't being confrontational about it, merely stating a fact. 

It was a hit to Tezuka, who felt like the breath had been let out of him like an exploding balloon. Nanjirou had been a man in his prime, not the kind to die so young. He had admired the man for his skill and determination. The Legendary Samurai Nanjirou had been one of the reasons he had selected Seigaku, all those years ago. 

What would his death mean to Ryoma, still so impressionable at fifteen? Despite his attitude, he was only a teenager. Tezuka opened his mouth to murmur the customary condolences, but found the words evaporating before he could bring them to life. He knew how much Ryoma had idolized his father, even though he never showed it. He wouldn't play tennis like he did unless he genuinely felt something for the sport. 

The long silence lingered between them, the proverbial elephant in the living room, before Ryoma chuckled weakly. The smile on Ryoma's face was ironic. "I know," he said, answering Tezuka's uncertainty in replying. "I don't know what to say, either." 

"Ryoma, are you okay?" Tezuka asked hesitantly. "I mean, is there..." What could he offer? There was no way he could fix this problem, and he didn't like platitudes. 

"There's nothing anyone can do. People die, it happens," Ryoma said. He looked down at the book he was reading, staring at the pages without really seeing it. Tezuka realized he hadn't seen Ryoma turn the pages at all. "And we move on." 

"Did you only play because of your father?" Tezuka asked. Tezuka remembered that game, back in junior high, when he'd challenged Ryoma and forced him to confront the fact he didn't see tennis 

"No," Ryoma said. "I played because I liked it, but I don't anymore." 

Tennis and Nanjirou were synonymous to Ryoma; he wouldn't be able to play without thinking of him. Tezuka tried to think of a counter argument, to persuade Ryoma that his father wouldn't want him to quit, that he was dishonoring everything Nanjirou had stood for. The argument froze in his mouth, since he knew it wasn't his place to make it. Ryoma was perfectly in his rights to stop playing. 

The sound of a ring tone chiming saved Tezuka from saying anything awkward. Ryoma pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, checking the screen quickly. "I need to go to the store for my mother," he announced as he put it away before cleaning up his books. "Excuse me, buchou." 

Tezuka murmured a farewell, but remained behind to think. Once he had sought to inspire Echizen to reach for greater heights than merely defeating his father. He had always believed he'd gotten through, but apparently he failed. 

He ran over the conversation in his head, coming to the conclusion that Ryoma had made up his mind. This wasn't a hysterical reaction, and by all rights, Tezuka should drop the subject and let Ryoma go his own way - but he couldn't. He remembered Ryoma's exit, and the ingrained respect he'd shown. 

_Excuse me, buchou..._

He was the captain. He needed to provide leadership for his protégée now, more than ever. He just had no clue what direction to lead. 


	3. The Day I Tried to Live

**Reprise  
**

_by aishuu_

* * *

_Part Three: The Day I Tried to Live_

Tezuka was the type to keep his own counsel, but at times he needed input from others. That's how he ended up at dinner in Kawamura's shop the next day with Fuji, Oishi and Inui. He was treating them – a rare thing, since Inui liked to order the most expensive items on the menu and Fuji ordered the weirdest and then insist on sharing. He had decided the burden to both wallet and taste buds was acceptable in this instance.

He'd also extended the invitation to Kikumaru, but the redhead had declined. He knew that Kikumaru tended to be nervous around him, and regretted that he was relieved that Kikumaru said no because of a family obligation. Tezuka didn't dislike Kikumaru, but knew that serious conversation was difficult with Eiji around.

They ate together quietly, complimenting Kawamura on his cooking. The former power player really had improved a lot, and Tezuka knew the shop had a good future. Tezuka himself was distracted by his thoughts, trying to figure out how to voice his concerns. He hadn't told them why he wanted to meet, but they all knew it was about Ryoma. The problem hung over the table like a gray cloud, dulling the usual playfulness of their banter.

Tezuka set his chopsticks down when they were nearly done, and decided to state the situation flat-out. "Nanjirou-san died about a month ago," he said.

He watched as shocked, then dismayed, recognition passed over the faces of his teammates. They were a smart bunch, and all of them immediately recognized the impact the tragedy had on Ryoma. It was no wonder he wasn't playing tennis anymore.

"Are you sure? Why wasn't there an obituary or something?" Oishi asked. "Nanjirou-san was pretty famous."

"Maybe the newspapers didn't pick up on it since he lived in America," Fuji said with a shrug. "Though I would guess Inoue-san will get there eventually, publish some kind of retrospective thing."

"How did it happen?" Kawamura asked, leaning across the counter. "An accident?"

"Some kind of aneurysm," Tezuka said. "No one saw it coming, from what Echizen told me."

They all abandoned any pretense of interest in their meal. "So what do you want to do?" Inui asked. He had a green notebook out, pen poised to make notes.

"I was hoping for your input," Tezuka said stiffly. What he'd been hoping was that one of them would have a brilliant idea on how to handle this. It was likely they were just as clueless as he was, since none of them had ever been faced with this kind of situation before. Oishi was good at dealing with emotional things, Inui was innovative, Fuji was perceptive and Kawamura had common sense. Surely they'd be able to help him somehow.

They were all quiet for several long minutes, each retreating into himself and they considered the options. "Does he want help?" Fuji asked after a long moment.

"That doesn't matter," Oishi replied. "It's clear he needs it, and we're his senpai. He needs to know he can rely on us to help him through this."

"So you're thinking of an intervention or something?" Fuji asked, arcing an eyebrow at Oishi.

"He would not react well to that," Inui said. "Unless he has changed greatly, all data indicates he would be offended by poking into his family life."

"There's basically two options. Either we try to confront him, or we let him go," Fuji said. "Echizen is a very direct person. He doesn't like people who don't say what they mean."

"He needs a friend," Kawamura said. "Maybe Momoshirou-"

"No," Fuji said gently, "he needs someone to look up to."

Their eyes all went to Tezuka, and it was only his discipline that kept him from squirming in his seat. He had known they were likely to put the ball back in his court, but had been hoping to avoid it. "I'm not sure-" Tezuka started to protest, feeling the stirrings of an impending migraine gathering behind his temples.

"You inspired him once before," Fuji said. "I think you need to do the same now."

Inspiring someone to play tennis was one thing. Trying to help someone through grief was something else entirely – especially since Tezuka admitted he wasn't that great at reading other people's emotional states. Tezuka opened his mouth to protest, but Oishi interrupted.

"Tezuka, if you can come up with a better idea, we'd love to hear it," Oishi said. "But I think it's the best we have. Even if it doesn't work."

They had to make some effort to help Echizen, Tezuka knew. And rationally he was the best choice; but the same rational pointed out that Tezuka was horrible at dealing with "personal issues." He wasn't the type to express pessimism vocally, but it was definitely in his mental processes. He knew this was going to wind up a fiasco.

"Is it in his best interests to keep playing?" Fuji asked, turning to Tezuka. "He may have too many memories associated with his father, and it could be better for him to find a different path."

"Tennis is his legacy from Nanjirou-san," Tezuka said softly. "And it's what he was born to do."

"Maybe," Fuji replied, his voice soft. "Maybe not."

"Echizen needs to confront his grief," Oishi said. "Bottling it up will only lead to trauma later in his life."

"Thank you, Oishi-sensei," Fuji murmured dryly, before taking a sip of cooled green tea. "I agree that trying to help Echizen is a good idea, but we should accept that maybe he's right to not play anymore. We all must grow out of our family's expectations."

It was poetic and profound, and Tezuka found himself gritting his teeth in irritation. Fuji had a way of planning for worst-case scenario that managed to irritate. Luckily Inui spoke, sparing Tezuka from having to think of an equally weighty remark.

"As much as I hate to say this, there are other sports Echizen is suited to," Inui added. "He's a superior athlete, and will find it easy enough to adapt to another field, if he choses."

The idea was anathema to them all, since tennis was _tennis_, and anything else was seriously less. But it wasn't a bad idea, to have Echizen at least consider what the other options. Echizen was a good student, but a world-class athlete. He had the enviable ability to adapt to whatever he chose, and it would be a shame for him to give up sports entirely.

"But we'll make sure he gives tennis one more shot," Fuji said, nodding in satisfaction. "No matter what he does, we'll support him and let him know that."

All eyes turned once more to Tezuka, and it was only his self-control that kept him from squirming. Kawamura seemed to understand his discomfort. "If you do your best, no one can ask for more," Kawamura said consoling.

Since Tezuka always expected himself to not only do his best, but succeed, it wasn't a comforting sentiment. Hopefully he could figure out something that wouldn't add to Ryoma's mental scarring.

* * *

He waited a couple more days, knowing that Ryoma had raised his self-defenses. Tezuka wasn't a great student of human nature, but he was smart enough to realize that catching Ryoma off guard was a good idea. Surprise might be his only weapon against the younger boy's formidable stubbornness.

On Saturday, he informed Oishi that he would be missing afternoon practice due to other business. His vice captain nodded in acknowledgment, but didn't raise a fuss, adding that he'd have Inui create a special training menu for the day. Tezuka smiled; if Inui was in charge of training, that would keep the data geek from deciding to find out what Tezuka was up to. While Inui had made definite inroads into controlling his stalking tendencies, a chance to witness the first Tezuka-Echizen match in years would be irresistible.

He caught Ryoma by the gates, carrying a full backpack and moving with a shuffling, distracted gait. His eyes were staring up at the sky, which was threatening rain. "Echizen," he said, and the younger boy turned his head.

"Don't you have practice, buchou?" There was insolence in the set of his lips, like a smirk had been mixed with a scowl.

"I had something more important to do. Play with me, Echizen," Tezuka said calmly.

"I told you I quit," Ryoma replied, snorting, and he turned to leave.

Tezuka caught the younger teen's shoulder, breaking his usual rules about respecting others' personal space. "Play with me. If you decide this is the last time, I will ensure that no one from the tennis team bothers you again," he promised.

"Fine. One game," Ryoma replied sullenly. If he'd been wearing his usual cap, he likely would have pulled it down low to cover his sulky expression.

"I'll meet you tomorrow at ten, at the courts near the underpass," Tezuka said. "No referee, just us." There was the possibility of Echizen having second thoughts and not showing up, but he had to offer some sign of trust. Echizen had never disappointed him before.

Ryoma nodded wordlessly, and then walked off. Tezuka chose not to be offended by the implied rudeness.

Tezuka spent that afternoon preparing, gathering the gear he'd need and mentally preparing. Before big games, he usually spent some time considering his strategy, and this had the potential to be the biggest of his life. More rode on the outcome than a simple championship.

* * *

He woke early the next morning, and set off for a jog. He wasn't a morning person naturally, although he'd trained himself to become an early riser. Physical exercise was better than a cup of caffeine to get his thoughts going. He carefully kept his mind on his more mundane concerns, like the history test that he was convinced he was going to flub. Tezuka was ranked top in his classes, but it required stretching himself thin to keep up with.

The sky was overhung with threateningly gray clouds, and he wondered if it was going to rain. It would be an excuse for Echizen to cancel on him, and Tezuka had the feeling that if that happened, they would never play another match. Excuses had a way of compiling on top of each other, much like late homework assignments.

He left for the court about an hour early, deciding to get his warm-ups in before Echizen arrived. He didn't get to practice as much as he would have liked – Tezuka would have loved being able to practice all day, every day – but responsibilities had a way of rearing their ugly heads. He needed to be on his best game today.

The court was empty when he arrived. It was that off time, after the early morning players had finished and before the students looking to hang out during the afternoon arrived. Tezuka was glad, since he didn't really want an audience for this match. Many tennis aficionados would recognize him, and some might even remember the "fabulous freshman" from several years ago. Echizen Ryoma's name was legendary in some circles.

He'd brought three containers of balls, all of them new. Two of them he planned to save for the match. Popping the seal on last set, he pulled out a ball and went to practice against the board. New balls just bounced differently than ones that had already undergone repeated impacts. It would be disrespectful not to give his best.

It was the same court that Tezuka had first played Ryoma at, defeating him soundly. He had a sense of deja vu as he glanced over the net, although Echizen was much taller than he'd been, and also appeared less interested. He still remembered that fierce look of determination Echizen had worn during that match, which Tezuka had transformed using his tennis first to shock, then frustration and finally awe.

But he'd known what he was doing then. Now he wasn't so sure. Tezuka had never been one to gamble, unless matters were important. He'd shuffled the deck; now he had to see how the cards landed. But Tezuka wasn't going to back down. If life had taught him anything, it was that he could only do his best.

Echizen arrived ten minutes late, no surprise considering he was only a passing acquaintance with the concept of punctuality. At least he looked like he had warmed up, probably jogging from the station. While Tezuka had lots of patience, he wanted to just _play._ He had to remind himself that he wasn't here to gage Echizen's progress, but to encourage him to continue to play.

Ryoma wore an old tennis shirt and black shorts, looking like he had in middle school – except his Fila cap wasn't there. Instead he wore a baseball cap emblazoned with the New York Yankees logo.

He looked different, Tezuka thought. And entirely unwilling to play, if the slouch of his shoulders and sullen set of his face was anything to judge by. No one said this was going to be easy, but Echizen was determined to stick his heels in and drag them like a stubborn mule.

Instead of discouraging Tezuka, the sight invigorated him. Stubbornness he could handle; he had more than his fair share of the quality. As Echizen set his belongings down and did a few obligatory stretches, Tezuka stared up at the sky, relieved that the clouds were moving on.

Echizen didn't say anything, instead wisely moving through a quick series of exercises to avoid pulling something later in the game. Tezuka took a drink of water, and waited for the underclassman to finish.

Finally Ryoma went to his bag to retrieve a red tennis racket. From five feet away, Tezuka could see that it was relatively new, meaning Ryoma had upgraded since middle school. Tezuka still used the racket he'd saved up to purchase while in the final year of elementary school. Ryoma made a couple of practice swings, then walked onto the court.

Tezuka went to the net, holding his racket. "One set match," he told Echizen. "We can judge for ourselves. Rough or smooth?"

Ryoma seemed a bit disconcerted that they were actually going to flip for serve. Maybe he'd been expecting Tezuka to grant him the serve out of some sort of deference to his grief, or lack of recent practice. He should have known better. Tezuka planned on giving nothing to Echizen except a fair match. "Rough," Ryoma said after a second, and Tezuka spun his racket.

He won the serve. Going back to the baseline, Tezuka bounced the ball a couple of times, calming his nerves. Tennis was something he understood. Then he served, and scored an ace. Then another, and another. Before Ryoma had time to so much as blink, the game flew by, and Ryoma never had a chance to respond.

He looked across the net to see how Ryoma was taking this. Was he being deliberately apathetic, and going to let Tezuka win? That didn't seem like him – he'd always been extremely competitive – but neither was quitting tennis.

Ryoma's face was ashen, which was worrisome. Tezuka wondered if he was going to faint. But he was thankfully stubborn, since a couple of seconds later he was using his twist serve to try to get a bit of his own back. Tezuka met it squarely, sending the ball back over the net.

It was the first volley of the match, and Tezuka used his skills to offer pinpoint-accurate returns, sending Ryoma running from far right to far left in a desperate bid to keep up. A couple of weeks without playing had dulled Ryoma's edge. He was still very good, but the fine line of honed perfection was missing, and it showed. There was no way Ryoma could win.

For him to play a national caliber player of Tezuka's level was unfair. Had Tezuka been a gentler soul, he might have gone easier on Echizen, but he wasn't. Ryoma didn't learn anything from winning; it was too frequent an occurrence. Ryoma was one of those rare players who learned more while losing.

The next game went by just as quickly, but in the fourth game, things started to shift. Ryoma's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he started to move better, like he had triggered the skills that have been dormant. He managed to secure a point, but then Tezuka crushed him back down taking the game. The fifth and sixth games went much the same, with Tezuka dominating, winning 6-0.

The whole match had taken only fifteen minutes.

Tezuka's sense of deja vu just increased as Ryoma slumped to his knees, his hands unsteady as he held onto his racket. "Why did you insist on playing? To prove you're still better?"

"No," Tezuka replied, "to prove you still have a long way to go."

Ryoma's grip, slippery from sweat, relaxed on his racket and it clanged to the hard court. "But I don't want to play anymore."

"Don't lie to me, Echizen. It's okay to want to play. It's okay to find other opponents," Tezuka said. "Tennis isn't about having just one rival; it's about pushing yourself. You wouldn't have become a nationally-ranked tennis player if you didn't know that, somewhere." He paused, feeling a bit embarrassed as he concluded: "It's okay to love the game, even if your father isn't there to encourage you."

A sniffle came from across the net, and then Echizen had tears rolling down his face. Tezuka just stared, feeling gauche. Oishi or Momoshirou would have made some move to comfort the underclassmen; Tezuka didn't have an idea where to begin. Instead he stood watching, letting Ryoma cry. He cried quietly, without any gasps or sobs.

The whole situation was embarrassing for the both of them, but Tezuka wasn't about to point that out. Ryoma made no move to wipe the tears off his face, but Tezuka didn't think less of him for it. "Thank you, buchou," he murmured quietly.

"I'll see you at practice tomorrow," Tezuka said. "Ranking matches are next week, so you have a lot of work to do. After you do twenty laps for skipping. And if you're slow with them, I'll assign you another ten."

That made Ryoma laugh, a stressed, tired sound, but to Tezuka, it was beautiful. Things were going to be okay, both for his prodigy and his team. Maybe was being selfish in forcing Ryoma back into tennis, but Tezuka couldn't regret it.

The chance to win the national title was within their grasp, since Echizen would undoubtedly upset the whole structured Japanese tennis scene again. And maybe that would help him continue to heal. Grieving was a continual process, and Tezuka wasn't foolish enough to believe that this match has magically solved all of Ryoma's problems.

But it was a start. 


End file.
